


When You Are Old (And Grey And Full Of Sleep)

by Lothiriel84



Series: The Wind Among The Reeds [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Romantic Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a throwaway line from his landlady, in response to one deduction too many about the current state of her love life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Are Old (And Grey And Full Of Sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the namesake poem by William Butler Yeats.

It all started with a throwaway line from his landlady, in response to one deduction too many about the current state of her love life.

“Laugh while you may, young man,” Mrs Hudson warned him, doing her best impression of Sherlock’s mother. “Just wait until you’re older, and you’ll change your mind.”

He was about to make a sarcastic quip, but somehow the words died on his tongue. The truth was that he’d never spared a thought about the subject; when he was younger he used to assume he would never make it into adulthood, let alone grow old – and possibly boring too.

As he climbed the stairs to his flat he tried to conjure up an image of himself as an elderly man, only to fail miserably. However, he was pretty sure he didn’t like the idea of growing old all by himself; over the last few years he’d become increasingly fond of the few selected friends who were understanding enough to tolerate his eccentric behaviour, and he wasn’t prepared to give up on them anytime soon.

How would John be in another thirty years? What about Lestrade, and Molly? He wasn’t sure he could picture them either.

On a sudden whim he texted his brother. _Where will we be thirty years from now?_

 _Still in this dear old world, hopefully_ , Mycroft texted back. _Unless you’re planning to get killed, of course._

He rolled his eyes in annoyance. _Won’t dream of it. Wouldn’t want to wreck your plans to take over the world._

_What’s your point, brother mine?_

_Nothing. Forget that I ever asked._

_If you say so_ , his brother conceded before eventually letting the matter drop.

 

* * *

 

Oddly enough, he started to pay more attention to his friends’ lives. He needed the data if he really wanted to make an educated guess about their future whereabouts.

John would definitely turn into a well-respected senior doctor, surrounded by the love of his family and friends. Mary would be there at his side – she was done with her old life after all – and they would be looking after their grandchildren and growing vegetables in the backyard garden.

Lestrade would eventually retire after a brilliant career at the Yard; and if they were lucky indeed, he and Mycroft would stop beating about the bush and actually admit their feelings for each other.

And Molly – well, he wasn’t completely sure what Molly would do. Perhaps she was going to be one of those cat ladies who adored their pets, and devote the rest of her life to her furry friends. Or maybe she would meet the right person at some point, someone that would make her truly happy the way that Tom couldn’t.

As for himself, he honestly had no idea where he fitted into this scenario. He supposed he could follow Janine’s example, retire to a cottage in Sussex where he could keep bees; he’d always had a predilection for bees, so he might actually make it work.

For some reason, it didn’t sound as appealing as he thought it would be.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks he started actively seeking the company of his friends.

He spent a fair amount of time at John and Mary’s, bantering with the two of them and doting on their beautiful child. He went out with Lestrade – Greg, that was his name – on a few occasions, enjoyed a quiet evening at the pub while discussing their latest case. He bought Molly coffee, actually listened to her observations instead of merely filing them away for future reference.

Mrs Hudson very nearly fainted the time he offered to fix the top shelf of her cupboard, which was dangerously near to collapsing under its own weight.

“Are you alright, dear?” she double-checked after the incident, as if she couldn’t quite believe that Sherlock Holmes could be so considerate to his old landlady.

He only shrugged as he disappeared upstairs, where he lovingly dug out his violin and dedicated himself to composing a new tune. When Mycroft showed up a couple of hours later he was in such a good mood he didn’t even try to start a fight, which had his brother raising his eyebrow in actual surprise.

“Mummy will be delighted to hear you’re behaving like a grown-up,” he stated in something close enough to approval, and Sherlock actually smiled.

 

* * *

 

He honestly hadn’t the slightest idea what possessed him to kiss Molly one evening. They’d been having such a good time of late, and he vaguely remember the act as somewhat pleasant when he’d been rehearsing it for Janine’s sake.

Except that Molly pulled back as if he’d just slapped her across the face, barely took the time to excuse herself before bolting for the door. Angelo shook his head in a conspiratorial sort of way, and wisely refrained from commenting.

Sherlock didn’t utter a word as he donned his coat and strolled out of the restaurant; this was a bit not good, that much was apparent, but he couldn’t quite figure out the reasons to it.

He wondered if he should ask John, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether his friend understood women as much as he claimed he did. Mary would probably be his safest bet, but then Mrs Watson hardly counted as an ordinary woman at all; that left only Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, and he couldn’t decide which option appeased him the less.

It was only when he was slumped onto the sofa in his flat that he finally remembered the perfect someone who could provide him with lecture-free advice – or something of the kind, at the very least.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, Sherl,” Janine greeted him lightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He tried for a noncommittal shrug, though he wasn’t entirely sure it came across as intended. “You said we could have been friends. Perhaps we still could, don’t you think?”

“Out with it, bad boy. Who’s the top brass you’re battling wits with this time?”

“It’s nothing of the kind,” he clarified, frowning, painfully unsure what to say next.

“Ooh,” she nodded knowingly. “The great Sherlock Holmes has just discovered he’s not as immune to emotions as he prides himself to be. May I ask who’s the lucky girl – or boy, maybe?”

His frown only deepened further. “Is it really that obvious?”

“I expect that your clueless friends won’t have noticed yet. Mike probably has though, he always does.”

“I don’t know why I thought that coming here was a good idea.”

Janine smiled. “Because you like me, Sherl. And we’re two of a kind, you and me. Who’s she?”

“A friend of mine. But it’s not as you would think.”

“With you it’s never as anybody would think. What did you do, freaked her out or something?”

“I might have,” he admitted, shooting her a lopsided smile. “And I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“Well, now that’s a start. Try and stop using her like you do with all the people around you, and things will get even better.”

He stared at her for a moment, and as much as he hated to admit it he knew that she had actually put her finger right on the crux of the matter.

“Thank you,” he said at last, placing a gentle peck on her cheek. Janine nudged him playfully in the ribs, then scurried away to meet her date.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” he announced without preamble as he barged into the morgue. “I promise I wasn’t trying to get anything out of you. I do value your assistance, even if I sometimes take unfair advantage of it. Okay, most of times. Could we please forget it ever happened?”

A wistful smile played on Molly’s features as he shot an expectant look in her general direction. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d be sorely tempted to believe you.”

“I’m being serious,” he huffed in frustration. “If I have to end up as a cranky old man doting on his bees, I’d like to know that I can still visit you sometimes. Never mind the cats.”

Her brow furrowed in utter confusion. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“Everybody seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that I actually despise other people’s company. While I don’t get along well with the vast majority of human beings, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life on my own.”

“So, you mean – what do you mean?”

He shrugged as he started pacing the room. “People didn’t usually like me, and I spent most of my life trying to convince myself that I didn’t care. Then I discovered that a small subsection of humanity could actually endeavour to tolerate me under determinate circumstances, and I’m still trying to cope with the notion. The only thing I’m certain of is that I don’t want to lose any of it.”

Molly smiled again, but he could tell that it was a genuine smile this time. “You git. Always trying to work everything down to some sort of complex equation.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” he claimed matter-of-factly. “My mother used to be a mathematician, and my brother – well, he’s Mycroft, and that says it all.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement now, as well as something else – affection, maybe?

“I still hope you’re going to turn up more like your father someday. He’s the most adorable gentleman I’ve ever happened to meet.”

His father. He’d never thought of that, but he wouldn’t actually mind if he ended up to resemble him a bit; more brilliant than his old man, and yet as happy as Father still was after all those years.

“Do you happen to like bees?” he inquired abruptly, and Molly only laughed in response.

“You’re a ridiculous man, aren’t you?” she chided him gently as she threaded her fingers through his own.

Perhaps he could fit the cats somewhere, along with the bees. And it seemed that he wouldn’t have to be alone after all.


End file.
